Hocus

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Irene, don’t do that to yourself.”

“You think something went wrong out in Riverside. That something has happened to Frank—”

“Wait,” she said. “Pete’s trying to tell me something.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand, so that I heard only the muted sounds of their brief discussion. There was a stretch of silence, then she said, “Look, I’m going to come over, okay?”

“He didn’t check in, did he?”

“Listen to me, Irene. For all we know, Frank is sitting in some bar, drinking with the local cops and thanking them for their cooperation, right? So I’m just coming over to keep you company, so that you don’t drive yourself crazy thinking about what might or might not be making him late. Pete’s going to go down to the office and get the informant’s address and phone number. Pete can find out who Frank talked to in the Riverside PD.”

“Tell Pete I want to go with him.”

“What are you, nuts? That department is not exactly singing praises to the Express right now. They aren’t going to let you walk in past the front desk. I’ll be honest with you. They think of you as some kind of Mata Hari right now. They’re sure you seduced a story out of your husband the cop. Pete told me that Frank was actually happy to get out of the building today. I guess their lieutenant has really been leaning on him. He’s got almost everyone convinced that the only way the Express could have learned the details of the arrests is through Frank.”

Rachel was at my front door not much later. She took one look at me, divined what I had been imagining, and said, “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you. Even though I think it’s the least likely possibility, Frank might be in trouble. Might be. You can’t do anything about it one way or the other, so making a nervous wreck out of yourself does nobody any good at all.”

Rachel retired about a year ago — while in her early forties — from working homicide in Phoenix; she’s now a PI. I figured she knew this kind of worry from both sides: former cop, cop’s wife.

“If it were Pete—” I began.

“I’d be concerned,” she said. “But not as upset as you are. Not until I had more reason to be.” She paused. “It’s harder if you’ve had a fight, maybe.”

“I’d say I owe it to Frank to keep my mouth shut for now,” I said. “But you probably know more about it than I do. Sounds like he’s told Pete quite a bit. Come on in and tell me what you already know.”

Once we were seated and the pets had settled in around us, she said, “Okay, I know Frank was upset about the article. That’s understandable, but I’m with you. Frank and Pete don’t have any right to try to ask you to do something that’s going to get you in trouble at work.”

“Frank has risked that much for me now and then. It’s more than just getting in trouble; it’s much worse than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I understand why Frank’s upset. To him, finding out who talked to Mark looks like an easy thing for me to do.”

“This Mark guy is a friend of yours, right?”

“Yes, he’s a friend.”

“So just ask him to tell you who the source is—”

“But I can’t do that,” I protested. “In part, because Mark is a friend. If he’s promised anonymity to a source, I can’t use our friendship to get him to break his promise.”

“So you’re saying it’s an ethical issue?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose your editor would be too pleased with you, either.”

I nodded. “He’d have a right to be angry. To fire me.”

“I think Frank understands that. He’s just frustrated.”

“I know, I know. But he made this into a question of loyalty: where’s my loyalty — with him or the Express?”

“Ah, I begin to see.”

“It made me furious. I was a reporter when we first got together. We’ve talked about this, talked it over before we got married. We had a whole system worked out, a way to avoid this problem. I’ve never taken anything he’s told me about a case into the newsroom — not unless he’s told me it was okay.”

“And he doesn’t talk about your work at the paper with the cops — not even with Pete, no matter what that little troublemaker says.”

I quieted down. “I know. I know he doesn’t.”

After a long silence she said, “Just like you know he doesn’t have any interest in his old girlfriend.”

“Oh, hell. Does Pete know about that, too?” I sighed. That meant Pete was up on two out of three of our recent problems. Frank was usually more discreet, even with Pete. “What did he tell you, then?”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you tell me your version of it?”

Before I could reply, the phone rang. I hurried to answer it. It was Pete.

“Have you heard from him yet?” I asked, all irritation forgotten.

“No, not yet. He hasn’t answered any of our pages. Riverside PD hasn’t heard from him since he called to let them know he was going out to talk to the junkie. Junkie hasn’t been paying his phone bill, so there’s no way to call